Dark Lady's Gambit
by Tabbykitty101
Summary: Sylvanas Windrunner walks a tightrope between the salvation of her people and obedience to the new Warchief.  With the Lich King gone, and the invasion of Gilneas approaching, will she find the keys to her people's survival in time?
1. Chapter 1

The strident cacklings and fetid echoes worming their way through the moldy stone of the Undercity quieted as its ruler's firm step echoed along the outer ring. Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady of the Forsaken, strode purposefully towards the Royal Quarter and her de-facto dais. Traces of annoyance lit the burning embers of her eyes, briefly visible beneath the dark folds of her hood. The few tradesmen remaining in the Apothecary district shuddered to see that glow and quickly bowed to their mistress as she passed.

Sylvanas tossed her chin high, a brief flick of her eyes all the acknowledgment bestowed on the reverent gestures of her people. By all accounts they were a pitiful band, reduced to scrabbling in the ruins of Lordaeron's twilight underworld. Between Varimathras' coup and the war in Northrend, her forces were barely half of what they once were. Her mighty generals, all burning with the lust to extinguish life, were now barely a handful. Her dark rangers and banshee sisters too were decimated from the Northrend campaign.

She felt a sneer threaten to curl her darkened lips as she approached the entrance to the Royal Quarter. Hulking Kor'kron orcs had replaced her slavish abominations throughout the city, ostensibly for her own safety. In truth, the Warchief no longer trusted her, or the motives of her people. Their shapes swam through the virulent air of the Undercity as they enforced their brand of order on her domain. She had quickly grown to despise their green skins and the foul sound of their tongue perverting the murmuring halls of death.

_Thrall or Garrosh, it makes little difference_, she growled. _Both are fools. Let them think me leashed if it pleases them._

"My lady, Bragor awaits us."

Her burning eyes focused on the sin'dorei following just behind. Ambassador Sunsorrow had paused, a soft viridian glow illuminating the distaste on his features. The blood elf had been in her service long enough to become accustomed to the sights and smells of the Undercity. However, the grunting hordes of their occupiers still managed to wring vestiges of sin'dorei hauteur from his schooled features on occasion. Elven notions of superiority ran deep. She still could feel its ghost when forced to deal with lesser races.

"We mustn't keep our Kor'kron commander waiting," Sylvanas said dryly, her voice reverberating hollowly. Of all the orcs in her city, her special distaste was reserved for the Kor'kron commander Bragor Bloodfist. At the new Warchief's insistence, he sat at her left hand in place of Varimathras, and nothing could be done in the Undercity without his approval. He and his Overseer Kraggosh were the nooses tightening around her neck. The message was plain.

_Behave or else_, she snorted mentally, ascending the stairs and entering the dark hallway to her throne. _Fools! Arthas himself could not force me to do his will forever._

At least here, in the innermost halls of her domain, the royal dreadguards continued their silent mission. Their hunched and rotted frames lined the walls, swords eternally at the ready. They were allowed to remain as the sole concession to her authority.

Turning the last corner, the raised dais of her throne came into view, replete with her few remaining advisors and the huffing mob of Kor'kron soldiers. To the right of the moldered green stone was her loyal banshee sister Sharlinda, floating close to Aleric Hawkins, courier to her Deathstalker minions. To the left, in a large patch of scoured stone, stood her problem…the Kor'kron commander Bragor Bloodfist.

He was an older orc, his ochre skin scarred from numerous battles. His graying hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, heavy sideburns just brushing the tips of his garish red-plated armor. His massive spiked war axe rested on his hip, within easy reach of flexing fingers. His face twisted in a sneer as she approached. Sylvanas lifted one eyebrow regally, her incandescent eyes flicking towards Sharlinda. The banshee's ghostly face looked worried.

"About time," Bragor snapped. "You and your…creatures," the orc glared at the Deathguard ringing the room," have new orders from the Warchief."

Sylvanas allowed a smile to drift over her lips, and raised a hand for a quick salute. Bragor's eyes darkened angrily at her mocking gesture.

"I had no idea the Forsaken had been conscripted into the ranks of the Kor'kron," Sylvanas drawled. "However, given your innate ability for failure on a grand scale, I cannot help but be pleasantly surprised at the insight of the Warchief. As always, we of the Forsaken are ready to serve the mouthpiece of the Horde." She gave a slight bow, relishing the angry snort from the orc.

"You are too lippy by far, Dark_ Lady_. You should remember just who gives the orders for the Horde." Bragor pulled out a tightly rolled parchment, flicking it open with a quick motion. Sylvanas swept up the dais, taking her accustomed spot just over the Commander's head. The orc glared irritably at her intricate boots over the top of the missive.

"Will you be favoring us with a display of your learning prowess?" she asked archly, keeping her face carefully neutral. Bragor gave another snort.

"Warchief Garrosh would like me to remind you, Lady Sylvanas, of your tenuous position within the Horde. Your meddling with the plague only proved you to be a true creature of the Lich King's. Without our support, you would be torn apart by the Alliance. Without our sanction, the forces of the Horde would unite to destroy you. Therefore Garrosh wishes for you to prove your loyalty to both to him, and the Horde."

"Have I and my Forsaken not done everything the Warchief has asked?" Sylvanas asked, carefully pitching her hollow voice for maximum sincerity. She spread her hands wide. "All we have done is defend ourselves. We did not ask for this curse."

"The blight, Dark Lady, is not defense," Bragor growled. "Putress' actions…"

"Were not of _my_ design!" Sylvanas said sharply. "He and the traitor Varimathras acted on their own. Your former Warchief believed my words."

"Thrall is gone. It is Garrosh who speaks for the Horde now, and he doubts your sincerity." Bragor shifted back to the parchment. "Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, the Horde requires your service. War is coming with the Southern Alliance Kingdoms. It is your duty to advance our interests. Since the Steamwheedle cartel refuses to allow ships of war within their ports, you are to secure a landing area for our forces."

"Where would that be, pray tell good Commander," Sylvanas said drily.

Bragor smiled and tossed the parchment at her feet. Stenciled on the uncoiled paper was a map of southern Silverpine, stretching towards a cross-hatched wall and the crudely marked areas beyond.

"Gilneas." The orc spat the name. "The foolish humans walled themselves up after the Second War. However, with Azeroth's recent great upheavals their wall has collapsed. This land will be perfect to launch an invasion of the South. You will begin mobilizing troops immediately for dispatch to the remnants of the Graymane Wall. Garrosh expects you to have claimed victory over the region within a month."

"My forces are not recovered from the Northrend campaign. It will take time to recall them, and longer to train those not pressed into service before. I assume we will be simply act as guides to members of the assault?"

"You are the assault. The Warchief does not care to reinforce you at this time." Bragor rolled his shoulders and shrugged. "If you die to a one throwing yourself at the forces of Gilneas, well, at least the issue of loyalty will be solved." He smiled, his sharpened teeth gleaming in the dull light of the throne. "And there will be no deployment of the plague; on this point the Warchief was quite clear. Any use of the plague on the Gilneans and you will be without Garrosh's protection. We of the Kor'kron will of course be going along, to ensure the assault goes as he wishes."

Sylvanas fought to hide the fury from her face, and curled her fingers into the icy skin of her arms to remove the temptation of taking up her bow and simply slaying the annoying orc.

_I understand now Sharlinda's worry. This will decimate us_.

Her banshees understood the problem well. The Forsaken was entirely composed of those taken in the first waves of undeath unleashed by Arthas' bloody campaign. Without the vital secrets of the plague originators, her researchers could only replicate the horrific deaths. Raising new Forsaken was beyond them. And so her forces dwindled with each campaign, while the Horde continued to demand more from her and her people. Assaulting Gilneas, even with use of the plague, would leave them crippled. Gazing into Bragor's bloodshot eyes, Sylvanas felt her fury coalesce into a frigid ball of hate. Garrosh wanted them weak and under his thumb. The living could not understand that she and her people would never bow to them. They hadn't asked to be condemned to this prison of half-life; always reminded of the beauty lost forever to the Lich King. For their sins, the living would die, choking on their own liquefying organs while her people celebrated. But firstly…

"We bow to the Warchief's wisdom, of course. That one so young is so gifted in perception…The Forsaken will of course begin our preparations to secure the land of Gilneas for the glorious Horde." Sylvanas bowed, the edge of her dark hood covering the burning fury in her eyes. Bragor shrugged and snapped his fingers. Two of his guards rapidly fell into step as he stomped down the dais. He paused briefly at the hallway, glancing back at the small group.

"I will send word of your agreement to the Warchief, after I visit Kraggosh in the Apothecary. I would hate if some…miscommunication resulted in more work on the plague after Garrosh specifically ordered you to prepare a strictly military assault."

Sylvanas waited until the orc was out of sight before turning towards her advisors, the crimson gleam of her eyes boring into their faces. The sharp squeal of her boots on the floor betrayed her anger as she paced back and forth on the dais.

"Sunsorrow," she snapped. "I want Lor'themar's reaction to this. What has that idiot buffoon of an orc ordered him to do and why."

The ambassador bowed. "Immediately, Dark Lady." His eyes narrowed in concentration, his fingers moving languorously. A swirling blue portal opened before him, glittering with the shimmering sunlight pouring over the far-off Silvermoon City. Sunsorrow saluted quickly, and vanished through the portal.

"Aleric, pass word to your leader. I want information on Gilneas. Pester that fool Bauhaus. There may be some Gilneans within the Forsaken."

The skeletal rogue bowed and vanished into the shadows. Sylvanas cast her eyes around the dais. Other then her own Deathguards and Sharlinda, she was alone.

"My lady," Sharlinda breathed, her ghostly shape wavering in the slight breeze. "Your orders?"

"Our options grow slim," Sylvanas said grimly. "If only…" She trailed off. Her Grand Apothecary had been beyond brilliant. Putress had assembled the Blight, tested it in a rich variety of situations, and proved its brutal effectiveness on both the Scourge and the hated living. She firmly believed he would have dealt the Lich King a death blow if given slightly more time. Curse the meddling red dragons for halting its spread before the Wrathgate! And as an added insult, he had to be sacrificed to shift the onus of blame, and his precious notes hidden. He had simply been a tool for their revenge, but Sylvanas wished events had played out differently. Her eyes hardened abruptly. Regret was a waste of time.

"Get word to the Apothecaries that their Lady wants them to redouble their efforts. We must have the plague ready to deploy at a moment's notice. If that ogre-faced twit Garrosh expects us to die for his glory, he cannot complain about the manner in which we do it. And gather our sisters. I will not approach this campaign with those Kor'kron idiots' fists around our throats."

"There may be news, my Lady," Sharlinda said hollowly. "Word reached us today that your loyal ranger Marrah is returning to the Undercity."

"She was stationed in the ruins of that vrykul castle in the Fjord. Why is she returning to the Undercity instead of reporting to Vengeance Landing?"

Sharlinda shrugged her ethereal shoulders. "The word passed through the rangers was that she must speak with you, my Lady."

Sylvanas tilted her head, fingertips drumming lightly on the curve of her bow. Marrah returning without orders could prove interesting. Information on the remaining members of the Scourge in Northrend was still sketchy after Arthas' death. She twirled on the dais, stalking towards her silent chamber at the rear of the room.

"Bring her before me as soon as she arrives."


	2. Chapter 2

"And so, my Lady, I have reviewed the official lists as you requested; double and triple checking to be sure, and I can confidently state that no Gilneans are among the Forsaken."

Sylvanas stared at the fawning self-appointed head of the Royal Census. Bauhaus had been a pompous official in life devoted to serving Lordaeron's kings, and death had not improved his situation. More so then many others, he clung to the illusions of his old imagined authority. His robes of office still gleamed atop his rotted frame, and his high hat clung to the remnants of his sunken head. His skeletal jaw chattered briefly at the end of each sentence, punctuating each pause with an unpleasant squeal.

"Gilneas was the closest kingdom to Lordaeron. How is it possible that _not one_ of their citizens fell here?" Sylvanas let her fingers tease the length of her bow, plucking the string absently. Bauhaus twitched, his bones rattling underneath the pristine robes.

"Genn Graymane was well-known for wanting to avoid the troubles of other nations, Dark Lady," Bauhaus coughed. "I doubt a single Gilnean has been seen since the end of the Second War, at least in Forsaken territories. There are rumors of ships venturing out, but nothing else."

Sylvanas waved her hand in dismissal. The groveling Bauhaus bowed low and backed out of the throne room, pausing every so often to abase himself on the floor. Cockroaches spilled out with each bow; their lithe forms skittering away into the dark corners. She reached out to one, tossing it from finger to finger before effortlessly siphoning its life force. Its terrified death squeal was vaguely soothing as she crushed its twitching body in her fist.

_Blocked at every turn_, she growled. Lor'themar had responded quickly to her request. The sin'dorei reagent knew he was in just as precarious as position as she. Without her forces, the remnants of the Scourge could easily decimate Silvermoon, and without her support, Garrosh would throw them out of the Horde. Through Sunsorrow, he had relayed a similar confrontation with his Orc ambassador telling him to prepare for war with the Alliance. However, unlike her, he'd been forbidden to send assistance south for the Gilneas assault and was instead told to concentrate on the Barrens area of Kalimdor. Still, Lor'themar had pledged what support he could to her.

Worse was the meddling of Bragor and Kraggosh with her apothecaries. None of her emissaries could get close without arousing suspicion, and she herself was monitored during her conversations with them. Sharlinda and her banshees were working on a way around the orc's constant surveillance, but as everything, it took time. And time itself was growing shorter before the Warchief expected them to begin.

It was the sound of growling and the insistent rasping of something heavy being dragged towards her that pulled Sylvanas out of her reverie. Glancing towards the entrance to her throne room, she quickly noticed a squadron of bandanna'd Deathstalkers hauling three cloth-draped cages. At their head was Aleric Hawkins, his sunken eyes burning with something close to mirth. He stopped several paces away and bowed deeply.

"Dark Lady, your Deathstalkers bring gifts."

"I despise theatrics in my servants, Aleric," Sylvanas said harshly.

"I beg for your indulgence then, great Queen." Aleric snapped his bony fingers. His Deathstalkers quickly pulled the cages closer, neatly spacing them in front of the throne. Menacing growls continued to spill from the right container, while soft weeping came from the other two. One Deathstalker chuckled and banged on the top of cage. The growls increased in intensity; the container shaking as its cargo shifted.

"If these are new subjects for the apothecaries…" Sylvanas began.

Aleric shook his head. "My lady, you entrusted us to get you information on Gilneas. Your loyal Deathstalkers left that very night for the Greymane Wall. It is as the orc said…nothing but rubble. But in our explorations, we came upon something more valuable then simple intelligence."

"Gilneans?" Sylvanas breathed, stepping down from the dais. Aleric cackled and pulled back the middle cage's covering. Shuddering inside was a barely-clothed human male. Froth speckled his lips, and strange claw marks striped his arms and legs. His eyes rolled wildly. Seeing her approach, he keened in terror and pressed back against the bars.

"We observed many like this one, fleeing here and there. But more interesting, was this one…"

With a dramatic flourish, Aleric pulled back the covering on the right-hand cage. Sylvanas felt an icy ribbon of anger spear through her chest.

"This is only a common worgen!" she snapped. "You waste my time showing me a pathetic human and this…creature?"

The worgen in the cage appeared completely insane. As the dim light hit its heaving form, it threw itself against the bars; claws rending the air. Foam sprayed from its muzzle, its yellow teeth dripping with venom. Aleric chuckled and placed one bony hand to his chest.

"My lady, until just recently, this worgen was human."

Sylvanas felt her brow furrow, and she stepped closer to the bars. The insane amber eyes of the worgen met hers. She reached out a hand, gripping the exposed muzzle firmly. The worgen struggled beneath her cold grip; howling in anguish as she tightened her fingers. Blood squirted from underneath her nails as she turned the creature's head back and forth.

"This was human?"

"Yes, Dark Lady. When we took these two, it was a husband and wife. They talked of infection, and en route the wife turned into this." Aleric's mask tightened in what could only be a riotous smile. "It's not a unique case my lady. On our return, we saw many humans in the throes of transformation into worgen."

"An infection that causes a transformation into beast," Sylvanas mused. She slammed the worgen's head against the bars, dropping it senseless to the bottom of the cage. As she wiped her fingers on the top, she motioned to the final cage. "Is that another of them?"

"That is the greatest prize, my lady," Aleric said, drawing the cloth back. Sylvanas frowned. Inside was a night elf female, clearly a druid from her bark and leaf-decorated armor. Her bright eyes were dulled with tears, but she still sat calmly within the cage.

"The night elves seek to meddle in the Eastern Kingdoms," Sylvanas said flatly. She stepped close to the night elf's cage, bending down to peer in. "Or perhaps Garrosh is planning a fate similar to Thrall's for the Forsaken."

"We come to help those who suffer from our misdeeds, not to make war" the night elf said softly. She turned her gentle gaze towards the human male in the next cage. "It is alright, Mikhael. Remember what I taught you. Calmness will control the beast."

Sylvanas watched raptly as the man appeared to take several deep breaths and close his eyes. His trembling lessened, and the foam ceased dribbling from his lips. She glanced up at Aleric.

"Where did you take the night elf?"

"She was with a small contingent of humans fleeing the outlying villages, including these two. She tried hard to get away, but she was no match for us."

Sylvanas reached through the bars, taking the elf's chin in her hand. The elf shuddered as the Banshee Queen's frozen blue-gray fingers cupped her face, but her eyes remained serene.

"Tell me, elf. What is your mission in Gilneas?"

"Don't tell that monster, Takane!" the man howled, throwing himself against the bars. "They can't know!"

"We are repenting for our sins against Elune, and the innocents of Gilneas." The night elf closed her eyes. Sylvanas smiled and dug in her fingers. The night elf's eyes popped back open, meeting her burning orbs. It didn't take much effort to stretch out with her mind. Sylvanas's eyes waxed brighter as she bored into the night elf's soul. The elf shook underneath her grasp, but couldn't break the connection. Her body shook with panting breaths as the Banshee took control.

"Now tell me why you are in Gilneas," Sylvanas purred.

Fresh tears spilled from the elf's dulled eyes as she mechanically responded. "The druids of the Scythe unleashed a terrible evil upon Gilneas. From ancient Blackwald, where the first were entombed, the Scythe of Elune stretches out to infect new victims. The worgen curse cannot be cured, but it can be controlled. We have come to teach control, and to ensure the Scythe is never found again."

"Takane, no!" the man howled. Aleric kicked his cage viciously, sending the man sprawling. The worgen in the far cage chuffed and growled furiously.

"This Scythe of Elune…what is it, and what does it do?"

"The Scythe is a weapon, a foul thing who's curse turns others into worgen. They are mindless animals, fully under the Scythe's power."

"And the bearer of the Scythe controls the infected." Sylvanas smiled, her thumb stroking the night elf's cheek. "How many Gilneans are infected?"

The elf's head shook, her lips twisting in a vain attempt to avoid answering. Sylvanas growled softly and released her grip, stepping back with a light smile. The elf shuddered as her hands rose and formed into claws. At Sylvanas's small gesture, the night elf's fingers began tearing into her face; gouging long furrows into the flesh. She screamed thinly as blood began to pour down her skin.

"Tell me and I will grant you a swift death."

The night elf's nails were viciously ripping and tearing at her exposed skin. Finally, the elf contorted as her nails approached her gleaming eyes, her agonized screams echoing throughout the chamber.

"Almost everyone!" she screamed. "They have a potion! Not good enough! No real cure! No cure!"

"Good pet," Sylvanas murmured, patting the cage. She released her compulsion, allowing the elf to sink into a ball of her own bleeding flesh. She nodded to the Deathstalkers. "You have done well. Take them to the Apothecaries for experimentation. We need to know if these infected and transformed Gilneans have any special resistances to our methods."

"And the elf, my Lady?"

Sylvanas stared down at the crumpled form. "The Forsaken are trapped within death forever. Anything shorter then forever is a mercy. Apothecary Keever will be delighted to have such a specimen for his experiments. A night elf should last a good long while in the cages."

The Deathstalkers cackled and saluted before dragging the crates out. Aleric remained behind, respectfully saluting.

"Our way forward becomes clear. The Scythe gives us power over their infected masses, and means they will happily die when the time comes."

"Yes, my Lady. I will carry news of this to your Generals."

"My Lady!"

Sylvanas turned, her eyes quickly picking out the figure shimmering out of stealth at the foot of her dais. Only her rangers could approach so closely without causing alarm. The figure was terribly thin in her tight black armor, with a thick ebon hood obscuring her features. Gleaming red daggers shimmered on her hips, casting a flame-like glow across her pale greenish skin.

"Marrah," Sylvanas grated. She waved at Aleric. "You are dismissed, Deathstalker."

Aleric bowed and vanished. Sylvanas watched his shadowed form retreat before turning to her kneeling ranger.

"Why have you returned without orders?"

"My General, what I have seen I must report."

"Speak quickly! The Gilneas assault waits."

Marrah spread her hands wide, her face still pointed towards the floor. "If my words prove unimportant, I will gladly give you my life, Dark Queen." She raised her eyes, their red gleam a pale shadow of the furious crimson of Sylvanas's. "I was stationed in the old vrykul keep in Utgarde, where I observed the movements of the Lich King's servants. Key among them was a vrykul called Ingvar. He sought to slay our forces in the hopes of becoming one of the Lich King's chosen."

"This is not unknown to me," Sylvanas snapped.

"When Ingvar failed to repel our invasion force, a Val'kyr appeared and resurrected him to fight again." Marrah shrugged delicately. "Ingvar was slain again, but the Val'kyr remained. I stayed in the ruins of the keep watching her for days. I listened to her mutterings. Then, one day she began to scream. She repeated over and over that her master had fallen. She appeared confused, and then angry. She finally flew off to the North and I followed."

The ghost of a smile swept over Marrah's face. "She led me to a place where the Val'kyr dwell, attended to by female vrykul servants high in the mountains of the Storm Peaks. They call this place Valkyrion, and it is populated with Val'kyr. I remained in hiding for some time, observing them. It is my belief, General, that they no longer answer to the Lich King, much as we do not." Marrah paused. "I also believe they can still resurrect the fallen without the Lich King's commands."

Sylvanas stood, her mind whirling. Val'kyr, free of the Lich King's control, were out there in the Storm Peaks. With them at her side, legions of Scourge would be at her command; rising to serve her as they once had the hated Prince of Lordaeron. No longer would the Forsaken be in danger. All of their fallen enemies would be absorbed, to carve a path across the bloody face of Azeroth.

"Get me Sunsorrow, and assemble your sisters. We go to Valkyrion immediately to prove your claims."


	3. Chapter 3

The Storm Peaks had a frigid beauty that the living Sylvanas would have once enjoyed. Its sharp, snow-drenched mountains and dazzling glaciers would have drawn out the poet in any sin'dorei soul. In undeath, it was nothing more then a collection of shadowy gray cliffs strewn with dirty, pock-marked blight. She stepped away from the shimmering portal, her rangers fanning out to either side. A small contingent of Deathguards moved to take up positions around her. Lastly, Sunsorrow himself stepped through; closing the portal with a snap of his fingers.

Sylvanas raised her head high, sniffing the air out of long-engrained habit. Deadening chill flowed from the valley below, along with the scent of char and destruction. The Banshee Queen narrowed her eyes, throwing the small village below into sharp focus. Several of the narrow vrykul buildings were on fire, and faint tinny clangs echoed up from the valley floor. She could make out the figures of armored men battling the spectral shapes of the Val'kyr throughout the camp.

"It appears the Val'kyr's nest was discovered by others," she drawled, smoothly raising her bow and notching back a single black arrow. She aimed for the center of the village, towards the undulating mass of attackers. A sharp twang split the air, and the arrow buried itself in the village square. Sylvanas raised her bow high.

"For the Forsaken!"

Her rangers vanished into the shadows, streaking down the snow to the melee below. Her Deathguards followed suit; their hollow cries drowning out the battle's din. Sylvanas walked more slowly, nonchalantly fitting arrow to string, and firing as the mood struck her. She had already noticed the tabards worn by the attackers: golden fists on silver and white. The forces of the Argent Crusade. They would have to be slain to a man to ensure no reports of her actions reached Fordring and the Alliance.

As her boots touched the bloody snows at the edge of Valkyrion, it was clear the battle was over. Between her guards and rangers, the small Crusade force had been wiped out. The surviving Val'kyr hovered just above the grounds, surrounded by the vrykul servants. Sylvanas raised her face to the wind, stretching out with her mind. There, just at the edge of town, were two terrified minds. She raised her bow, twin arrows tucked in her fingertips. Her bow sang, and double thumps announced her success.

Charging through the snows, several vrykul women launched themselves forward with a shout, their spears at the ready. Sylvanas raised an eyebrow as her rangers grouped protectively around her. She raised her eyes to the Val'kyr.

The ethereal women scattered, ringing Sylvanas and her forces. The sound of their flapping wings was deafening. Each Val'kyr tossed her head; their metallic helms sending painful gleams bouncing across the snows.

"Sylvanas."

"Dark Lady."

"Banshee Queen."

Their echoing voices rolled across the snow. The vrykul women drew back, lowering their spears. A large Val'kyr detached herself from the mob, lowering until she floated just in front of Sylvanas. Long, ghostly black wings brushed against the Banshee Queen's shoulders. Her pale skin burned beneath her dark ceremonial armor.

"I am Agatha. We know why you have come, Banshee Queen."

"You allowed Marrah to follow one of your number for a reason."

Agatha turned, spitting into the snow. "Do you hear the whispers of the one who calls himself our master?"

"Sleep, sleep," the other val'kyr echoed. "Lay down your weapons. Let death claim you."

"I hear nothing," Sylvanas growled. "Arthas is dead."

"Another sits, another calls, but we do not answer," the Val'kyr cried, their wings beating furiously. As one body they crashed their spears against their breastplates, howling in fury. Agatha raised her spear, and the Val'kyr fell silent.

"He is weak, and we are no longer slaves to his will," Agatha trumpeted. "We exist to bring glory to the master of death, and yet the crown is worn by one who does not want it." She tossed back her head triumphantly. "So we seek you, Dark Lady; the one creature whispered of by the Scourged as they fall. We feel your lust, your desire, and your hatred. The living must be judged! The scourging cannot be stopped!"

"But can you give me what I desire?" Sylvanas asked, gesturing with her bow towards the fallen Argent soldiers. Agatha snorted.

"Their judgment has come. Sisters!"

The Val'kyr swarmed the sky, taking up positions over the dead. Sylvanas watched intently as brilliant beams of necrotic power surged from the ethereal women, drilling into the still bodies. Surging flickers of purple and blue flowed along the corpses, raising them slowly into the air. Before her eyes, the flesh began to decay; peeling away from noses, revealing gleaming bone and rotting flesh. A final blast of power and the bodies twisted, dropping onto once-more steady feet. The undead warriors could have been fresh recruits from Brill. Their eyes focused on her, and as a man they saluted; bowing their rotting heads low.

"We return to serve you, our glorious Dark Lady!"

"Remarkable!" Sunsorrow gasped from behind.

"They will serve as we direct. They serve the one we call our master," Agatha breathed, her wings beating slowly. "We wish only to continue the judgment."

"In my service you will judge many, and add them to our ranks," Sylvanas smiled. "The Forsaken will be unstoppable."

"Dark Lady, we offer you others. There are other places still within the frozen north, hidden from our enemies…hidden from the one who pretends to the throne. Many escaped from the Citadel when his hold weakened. Raise your banner and they will come to you, the one we would call our Queen."

"Lady Sylvanas, if you accept their offer…how will you be different from the Lich King?" Sunsorrow whispered. Sylvanas frowned and backhanded the elf, sending him crashing to the snow. He struggled upright, a look of terror stamped on his normally composed features.

"Sunsorrow!" Sylvanas snapped, her eyes focused on Agatha's helmeted face. "Return to the Undercity and marshal my mages. I need them here immediately to begin the transport of our new allies."


	4. Chapter 4

Deep within the Undercity, Sylvanas strode towards the Apothecarium. Sharlinda floated at her side, shimmering in the dim air. She felt a rare glow of satisfaction burning in her frozen heart, enough to make it difficult to hide her mirth from her Kor'kron jailers.

The Val'kyr numbered slightly less then fifty, but were already proving themselves indispensible in the resurrection of fallen Forsaken and captives from the south. With Agatha's help, her emissaries had sought out hidden cabals of the Lich King's former creatures and brought them into the Forsaken's fold. Flesh giants, disillusioned death knights, even assistants to the originator of the plague had flocked to her banner. Without the fury of the Lich King to drive them, they were easy pickings for their many enemies. Serving her will gave them a purpose, and reignited their hatred for the living. They were all safely ensconced in the War Quarter, away from the prying eyes of the Kor'kron.

Her devoted Nathanos was finalizing their assault plans on Gilneas as well, with a special emphasis on taking Blackwald quickly to secure the Scythe of Elune. Between the Scythe and her own assault forces, the citizens of Gilneas would be ripe for the Forsaken's harvest. As an added insult to the Alliance, a small force had been dispatched to Tarren Mill, complete with barrels of plague from the stockpiles in Brill and the Sepulcher. The moment the Forsaken army crossed the ruins of the Graymane Wall, they would unleash the plague on the unsuspecting citizens of Southshore and drive the Alliance from the north. There was only one last component to see to.

Stinging fumes rose with each step down into the flickering light of the Apothecarium. Her Royal Society scurried from table to table; mixing and measuring the weapons of the Forsaken. Normally her apothecaries cringed underneath the lash of the Kor'kron overseer Kraggosh any time they attempted to work on the Blight. However, today they worked unfettered; their bony fingers squeaking against beakers with pleasure.

In the far corner, underneath the torn banners and molded stacks of books, stood Kraggosh. His eyes were dulled and fogged with confusion. Close by stood a hunched Forsaken man, and a kneeling human woman. Every so often the man offered the orc a swallow of something from a small skin spotted with black mold.

"Gerard Abernathy," Sharlinda breathed, "your servant, my Lady."

Sylvanas waved her hand in front of the orc's face. Kraggosh blinked slowly, a thin runner of drool slipping from his tusks.

"Your methods are excellent, Abernathy," Sylvanas nodded.

Gerard cackled. "The good overseer trusted my dear Theresa to bring him his meals. The compound I'm feeding him will keep him confused and disoriented as Lady Sharlinda requested." He shrugged. "He isn't pretty enough to make a truly amusing mindslave, but if it be your will, Dark Lady."

"I only need him incapacitated long enough for the campaign to begin," Sylvanas said hollowly. "Afterwards, he can scream to his Kor'kron all he wants. The deed will be done. Garrosh cannot argue with results." She raised her hand. "Faranell, come here!"

The head of the Royal Apothecary Society scurried to her side, his disembodied tongue flapping in the ruins of his face. "We are hard at work, Dark Lady, now that the overseer is…incapacitated. We struggle, but we will make up the time lost to their meddling. Reproducing the great Putress' work is difficult, but we will do it in time."

"Your Lady has a gift for you, Faranell."

Sylvanas trailed her fingers across the dank stone at the rear of the vault, easily picking out the hidden ridges in the wall. A touch here and there and a small door swung open. Beyond was a tiny cell strewn with papers. Several stained barrels were stacked in the far corner, marked with the insignia of the Forsaken. Faranell purred in his guttural voice, shouldering forward to paw at the torn parchment.

"Putress' notes on the Blight, and the few remaining barrels of the finished product from Northrend. Use it wisely, Faranell. I want it stronger then it was at the Wrathgate. I want our enemies obliterated. Gilneas will feel the wrath of the Forsaken!" _And that foolish whelp Garrosh shall know my power!_

Faranell crossed himself, bowing deeply. "It shall be as you command, Dark Lady."

"Come, Sharlinda," Sylvanas purred. "With things well in hand here, we should visit our dear Bragor for a small chat."

The eve of the Gilnean assault dawned unusually chill. It was one of those rare days in the rotting ruins of Lordaeron where the cold of the north swirled through the collapsing stone and sent the resident spirits into a frenzy. The echoes of Arthas's evil deeds dripped from the moss-covered buildings. It was the sort of haunted atmosphere the Forsaken craved.

Sylvanas stood in the wings close to the grand courtyard of Lordaeron, her armor gleaming in the fading light. The murmurs of her people in the square outside filled the air. While the first columns of plague machines and siege equipment had gone ahead with Nathanos, her main force remained awaiting her blessing. Her Deathstalkers had prepared quite a show to send them off.

Nearby stood the heavy figure of Bragor Bloodfist; his normally sharp eyes dulled. Sharlinda had had little difficulty in possessing the stubborn orc. It had been eternally amusing to watch him and his fellow befuddled Kor'kron load barrels of plague into the wagons destined for the Gilneas front. Thankfully, once the assault was under way the orc could be left clueless in the Undercity to report to Garrosh how she had followed his edicts to the letter. And, of course, once her banshees were freed from their possession duties they could easily rally to her side and deal with any unforeseen objections from the Horde generals at the Graymane Wall. The Horde would achieve victory on _her_ terms, or the generals would suffer the same fate as the Gilneans.

As the last rays of the sun died from the sky, the pitted bells still mounted above the keep began to ring. Sylvanas closed her eyes briefly, relishing the rotted tones as they rolled through her domain. As the last hollow peal faded into the dusk, she stepped out onto the bridge before her waiting soldiers. Immediate silence descended. Sylvanas's crimson eyes swept the crowd, a surge of pride shooting through her.

They were the victims of a mad child, and yet they still stood proudly. Their bodies had been broken, their souls tortured, and their lives stolen, but the Forsaken endured. Who better could claim this land then they? Their blood sluiced the streets and their bones cemented the mighty foundations of the Undercity. Meeting the glowing orbs and sunken glances of her soldiers, Sylvanas could see the same fury and pride in each of her subjects. This land was theirs. The living must be made to pay for their intolerance. Even their allies must one day be made to feel their wrath at eternal undeath.

She slid her hands up, pushing back her dark hood. Long, bleached tresses fell over her shoulders, looping around her delicately pointed ears. Her soldiers crossed themselves, falling reverently at her feet. In the gathering dusk, the revealed Sylvanas glowed with pale malice and power.

"Sylvanas…Sylvanas…" The whispered chant rolled from thousands of rotted mouths, shivering off the molded stone. She raised her bow, dropping the chant to a faint murmur.

"Some have said that we have outlasted our usefulness, now that the one who created is has fallen." Her echoing voice snaked among the masses. "Arthas is dead, and our swords and magics still ravage his rotting corpse!"

Her soldiers roared in approval; brandishing their weapons of trade. Sylvanas notched a single arrow, fel fire roaring around the tip. A harsh twang and the arrow sped into the wicker man erected before the ruined gates. Fire licked hungrily up the bundles of shattered wood; all taken from the interior of Lordaeron's rotting palace. On its head was a crude facsimile of the Lich King's vile helm, complete with bleached yellow straw hair.

"We exist to revenge ourselves on those that have wronged us. The Lich King and his Scourge muzzled us and held us in their thrall. But even the strongest of jailers eventually falls. And yet still we are beset on all sides. We are hunted by those calling themselves the true inheritors of Lordaeron…the disgusting pigs of the Alliance. Even our own allies expect us to die contented at serving their ends." Sylvanas paused, running a single hand through her frozen hair. The murmurs of her name surged from below. She ran her eyes over the crowd, measuring their fury. Finally, she snapped her fingers.

"We are the Forsaken! We will slaughter anyone who stands in our way!" At her gesture, her Deathstalkers surged forward, dragging two heavily chained figures. She had saved them specifically for this moment. The two Gilneans; one worgen, one still human, thrashed and howled in their heavy irons.

"We go to Gilneas to prove the might of the Forsaken. Gilneas and their allies will tremble at our power. Even the Horde will know that we will never go quietly in the darkness. We are the Forsaken, now and forever!"

As the crowd roared, two Deathstalkers unsheathed their weapons. A slight nod and the rogues sent their blades barreling into the backs of the two prisoners. Rattling screams rang out, and they collapsed at her feet. The worgen whimpered slightly; its amber eyes rolling towards her before falling silent.

"Agatha," Sylvanas called. The Val'kyr floated out from the darkness of the citadel. The muted clicks and grinding squeals that constituted shock from her people reached her ears. Sylvanas allowed herself a smile, and pointed at the two corpses.

The Val'kyr tossed her head, twin necrotic beams shooting from her palms and into the still bodies. The indigo flickers rent the darkness. In moments the corpses began to stir. The human pulled himself up first, crimson blood still dripping from lips now shriveled and black. The worgen soon joined him; bone gleaming through its rotted muzzle. They both saluted her and made their way down into the waiting throng. Sylvanas turned back to the crowd, throwing her arms wide.

"March now, with the Dark Lady's blessing, to the borders of Gilneas. Our enemies shall fall to our fury, and their bodies shall swell our ranks. All will know our vengeance, and all will suffer as we have suffered. We are unstoppable!"

Her soldiers howled in approval, shouting her name with enough force to make the old stones shake in their crumbling mortars. Sylvanas roared, brandishing her bow. Her legions began to funnel out, heading down the old Silverpine road towards the Graymane Wall and their base camp in Gilneas. Sylvanas Windrunner, Banshee Queen, remained basking in their adoration, savoring each echoing cry.

_And now Garrosh, we shall see_._ You can grasp at the title of Warchief all you wish, but this land will belong to the Forsaken, now and forever._


End file.
